I knew where I would go next: Florence. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. He had seldom been more perturbed. He was caked with dried muck. Brown broke the silence. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce.
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